YouTube Monetizes YouTube

-Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay-

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                  
Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"YouTube is the hippest network, and they abuse copyright right and left." 
                                                                                           -Prince


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& Gentlereaders),

From what I can tell from my exhaustive research—my normal 3 to 5 minutes of in-depth web surfing via YouTube's owner, the Goog—YouTube starting monetizing YouTube sometime back in 2018.

I don't know if they saved, um, demographically and economically challenged areas of the USA like mine till now or they just got tired of me rejecting their offer to sign me up for YouTube premium.

Regardless, in the good old days, having to watch a commercial for a few seconds before I could choose to opt-out seemed more than fair, in fact, downright cutting edge cool, almost woke...

X39!@GRa13$, Chief Algorithmite, YouTube Division, speaks:

"We hate to risk offending your delicate sensibilities, and once upon a time even we used to claim that 'information wants to be free' with a straight face, but would you mind taking a few seconds to determine if this advert is something you might be interested in?

We realize you're in a hurry to watch some cute kitty videos as well as all the copyrighted content posted by people claiming fair use so that they (and of course us, your benevolent supplier of free software and services) can make money from other people's work." 

Now, having lived long enough to confirm that there really is no such thing as a free lunch, I didn't even mind when they started running a single, 15-second mandatory commercial at the start of some videos.

A small price to pay for a free product.


YouTube Monetizes YouTube
Recently, adverts, often slick and professionally produced, have begun popping up at random when I'm watching something on YouTube.

I don't have a problem with advertising per se, the no free lunch thing again. While I confess to having downloaded, and use, an app from DuckDuckGo that lets me selectively block ads, I use it, well, selectively.

Being a current events junkie, freak actually, I access a bunch of carefully chosen sites on a daily basis to get my fix. On all but one, The Wall Street Journal (I pay a hefty subscription fee) I submit myself to advertising. I don't think that I'm entitled to view someone's hard work for free.

I have it set to block ads for all the random sites that I stumble on. This is because the app has made me aware that beyond the minor annoyance of ads there are potentially dozens of Botmonsters, Data Dragons, and Algorithmites (trackers) anxious to report every click and keystroke back to headquarters.

Any site that has become one of my regulars will find my blocker turned off. I know, I know, it's screaming into the wind. The sites that I leave it turned off for are gleefully hoovering up as much data as they can and selling it to the highest bidder.

But denying a bit of ad revenue to the Goog provides the illusion of privacy and control and there's a lesson to be gleaned here about getting what you're willing to pay for—real journalism created by real journalists—as opposed to what you get when you're not willing to pay anything at all.


BIG BUT
The reason I'm on about YouTube monetizing YouTube is because of the clumsy and heavy-handed way they've gone about it (unusual for the Goog I know, but still...).

Are they tone deaf? Are they oblivious? Are they trying to sell subscriptions?

A highly placed aid to X39!@GRa13$, who spoke to me on the condition that it remains anonymous, claims that at best YouTube breaks even and that the Goog would prefer it to be another big fat profit generator.

Of course, you could make an argument that given how much money the Goog makes selling our data without cutting us in that a service that breaks even is shrewd public relations.

But this column isn't about that so I won't bring it up.

[Clumsy and heavy-handed, remember? Nudge, nudge...]

Right! Thanks, Dana. The Goog is using what I call the 8-track system to randomly place ads within a given video. The logic seems to be, let's not just place more ads let's do it the most annoying way possible.

[What's the 8-track...]

Follow the link. Long story short, picture a hooge plastic box of pre-recorded music that every so often, usually in the middle of a song, pauses, makes a loud CLICK-CLICK noise and then resumes playing.

Cutting edge tech for playing music in your ride... in the late 1960s.

Fast forward (which you usually couldn't do with an 8-track player) to the late 2010s and now we have the Goog inserting commercials, at random, into a given video.

"So tell us, professor Einstein, what thought was the seed that led eventually to the theory of General Relativity, and what... "

"Hey there, I'm just driving to my new house in Palm Springs in my new Ferrari. How would you like to be as rich as me without having to leave your house?" All ya gotta do... "

The 8-track system. Hoo-boy.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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Cranky don't tweet.




 

My Sister of Charity

This nun was fun

Sr. Mary Clifford Soisson, SC

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

[Photo by Angela]

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"For a Catholic kid in parochial school, the only way to survive the beatings-by classmates, not the nuns-was to be the funny guy." -George A. Romero 


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& Gentlereaders),

Six of my first eight teachers were members of a Roman Catholic religious community, that has roots extending back to 1809, the Sisters of Charity.

Sister Mary McGillicuddy changed my life, Miss Crabtree, not so much.

[Um, don't you mean Ms. Crabtree?]

No, Dana, I do not. I'm so old that Ms. magazine wasn't published till the year after I graduated high school and which, according to Wikipedia, is when that particular honorific caught on.

Now that name tags read, "Hello, my name is _______ and my personal pronouns are _______  " it sounds/seems almost quaint.

Sister Mary and Miss Crabtree are composite creations. S'ter Mary McGillicuddy represents the six nuns mentioned above. Miss Crabtree stands in for the two lay teachers I had in Catholic grade school.

To a lesser extent, she represents the handful of female teachers I had in public high school; the word handful is an indicator of my encroaching decrepitude.

The majority of my teachers in public high school were male, the principal and vice-principal of the two high schools I attended were both also members of the toxic sex, particularly the vice-principals (readers of a certain age nod knowingly).

However, this column is about a real Sister Mary, Sister Mary Clifford who was my teacher in seventh grade and whom I recently discovered died in 2010 at the age of 89.

She was my first and only "cool" nun. She was the first and only nun I liked. She was one of only two nuns I wasn't afraid of.

She taught me, at the age of 12—without meaning to—that nuns were just H. sapiens in peculiar clothes, not members of a separate, parallel species.

Sisters of Charity, New York -1965

Eileen Soisson was born on the 17th of July, 1920 in the Borough of Bellevue which borders and is butt up against, by gum by golly (sorry...) Pittsburgh (with an h).

Like me, she attended Catholic grade school (hers still exists) and public high school. She received a scholarship to Seton Hill (not Hall) College which was founded by the Sisters of Charity. She took her vows in January of 1942.

She was not only my seventh-grade teacher she also was the principal of the school, St. John the Evangelist, which was located on the Sou'Side-a-Pittsburgh, across the street from the 12th street playground.

Somehow, I was one of her pets. To this day I don't know why.


Being a pet of the principle meant that at least once a week I got out of class to accompany her when she borrowed one of the parish priest's cars to take care of some sort of business, usually grocery shopping for the convent that was right next to the school.

It was never just me—there was always at least one of the other boys, sometimes two depending on our mission—but it almost always included me. In retrospect, I can guess why it was always more than one boy but at the time neither I nor any of my classmates (that I'm aware of) noticed or cared.

Different era...

But.  Why.  Me?

There was this girl, Ellen somebody? who from year to year was always a teacher's pet, but that made sense. She had a beautiful voice and the nuns were always finding excuses to get her to sing.

I didn't give it much thought at the time, just enjoyed it, rolled with it, took it for granted. Somehow, even my classmates didn't razz me about it and normally this was a group that called each out for everything


I still have no idea what she saw in me, but I do know why I liked her so much. She was genuinely nice. She kept at least one foot in the real world at all times. She wore her vocation like a corsage, not a crown of thorns.

She clearly enjoyed driving and when I was out and about with her she acted like a doting aunt, not my teacher. She'd answer our questions about parish politics, other nuns, her life, etc., questions we'd never think of asking in class (it just wasn't done) as honestly as she could.

But always diplomatically, always taking the high road, never stooping to gossiping or backstabbing. Keeping the faith, as it were.

It was probably why I caught no crap from my peers—everyone liked her. She ran a tight ship in class but possessed not a trace of Crazy Nun Syndrome.

[Note: If you've ever been exposed to CNS, which was a common malady at the time, no explanation is required. If you haven't, no explanation I can provide will come close to describing it properly.] 
 

Prior to Sister Mary Clifford, I had six teachers.

Four Sisters of Charity afflicted with CNS; one lay teacher that was about 150 years old; another lay teacher, for second grade, that taught us how to curse (rather genteelly by today's standards) by conscientiously explaining which words we were not permitted to use under any circumstances.

Eighth grade: different school, unremarkable nun. But I wasn't afraid of her thanks to Sister Mary Cliffords unintentional life lessons.

In her defense, she did an excellent job preparing us for Catholic high school knowing that intellectually speaking, things were about to get a lot more intense. And life lessons or not the nun that ran that school scared the hell out me, as she would any right-thinking person.

Fortunately/Unfortunately (it's very complicated) my parents couldn't afford to send me, so I was off to a public high school.

But thanks to Sister Mary Clifford, as my faith slipped away, I knew that nuns were just people, sometimes very special people. Look at her eyes.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. 

Cranky don't tweet. 

Christmas in Flyover Country

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                                            [Image by Jane Lund from Pixabay]

                  
Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"Once again, we come to the Holiday Season, a deeply religious time that each of us observes, in his own way, by going to the mall of his choice." -Dave Berry

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& Gentlereaders),

A previous letter, Mr. Cranky's Neighborhood, consisted of observations about the tiny "city" in Flyoverland I've lived in for the last 12.5 years but never paid much attention to till I began taking walks every day to avoid having to engage in other forms of exercise.

Or, God forbid, joining a gym (shudder).

Well, Christmas has come to Flyover Country and not only am I still walking around my hood twice a day I've also gradually lengthened my perambulations to cover a full mile both in the morning and at sunset.

But fear not.

If you're reading these missives after I've been deleted, there are no pictures of a preening, spandex-clad old man with one arm around his sugar baby while chugging on a bottle of Gatorade for Geezers (Now Available with fast-acting Viagra!) waiting to ambush you.

Anyways, all of the handful of folks on my route that had put up the Halloween lights I mentioned in my Halloween, 2019 letter have put up Christmas lights and in addition, the residents of a handful of other houses have put up Christmas lights as well.

The good news is that I've yet to spot a single instance of the hideous, all-white faux icicle lights that seemed to be taking over the world till recently. My neighbors appear to have better taste than I would've predicted.

But there's an enormous illuminated unicorn that has me considering knocking on a stranger's front door and asking, Why?

The bad news is that the overall volume of Christmas lights here and in the surrounding hamlets remains pathetic compared to what it was when I first arrived in Northeast Ohio 34 years ago and took up temporary residence.

The worst news is that compared to when I was a kid and living in Pittsburgh (with an h) at the height of the baby boom... Well, if the Ghost of Christmas Yet-to-Come had transported me here in the mid-sixties I would've assumed electricity had become a luxury for the middle and working classes.

I don't travel any more than absolutely necessary these days, and the Goog was less than helpful, so I don't know if this is just a local phenomenon or not. However, thanks to the Goog I did discover that paying a professional to do your Christmas decorating is an actual thing.

I wonder if Gibbon, in The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (only one of the many books I'm vaguely familiar with, feel free to mention and have absolutely no intention of actually reading) had anything to say about people in ancient Rome paying professionals to decorate for Saturnalia.

For the record, I wish we celebrated Christmas the way the Romans celebrated Saturnalia: shut everything down and party for a week.

                                                *     *     * 

Christmas, 1963: Ed and Reda Mehlmauer, and their seven kids, residents of a Pittsburgh neighborhood, "The Bluff," experienced their 15 minutes of (local) fame when word got out that both Ed and his firstborn (and first employed), Arletta, had both brought home a Christmas tree.

The Mehlmauers, a family of modest means, but not quite as bad off the Cratchits, did suffer from an embarrassment of riches in one respect: Christmas decorations.

Ed worked a second job during the holiday season, manning a gift wrapping station in the evening at one of the hooge, multi-floor downtown department stores with hooge, lavishly decorated street-level windows that are still open in the memories and imaginations of all Pittsburghers of a certain age.

After the holiday the store threw away all the decorations, preferring to buy new ones the following year, and we had boxes full of scavenged lights and decorations.

Or at least that's what I was told... keep your suspicions (or reality checks, older siblings) to yourself please. Don't mess with my Christmas memories.

Long story short, the Mehlmauers became the first family on the Bluff to have two fully decorated Christmas trees. No one in our working-class neighborhood had ever heard of such a thing. Kids too cool to be my friends were knocking on the door and asking to be allowed to come in to verify an unlikely rumor that they had heard.


A handful of other events of lesser importance also occurred in 1963.

Mona Lisa visited America for the first time. Zip Codes and the smiley face symbol were invented and the Beatles released their first album.

Reality being what it is, Martin Luthor King Jr. wrote the Letter From Birmingham City Jail in the margins of a newspaper in a jail cell, and JFK was murdered.

Most importantly, Arletta Mehlmauer, now Arletta B. for better than 50 years, firstborn and first employed daughter of Ed and Reda Mehlmauer bought me the coolest toy of my childhood for Christmas.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Please scroll down to react, comment, or share. If my work pleases you I wouldn't be offended if you offered to buy me a coffee.  

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Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post an announcement when I have a new column available as well as news articles/opinion pieces that reflect where I'm coming from or that I wish to call attention to. 

Cranky don't tweet.




 

 



 

Reparations

Reparations to all, and to all a good life!

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                              [Image by Richard Duijnstee from Pixabay]               

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering 

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?" -William Shakespeare


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& Gentlereaders),

Some people, and at least one candidate for president, support the payment of reparations to Native Americans for the depredations that they suffered at the hands of those that "discovered" America and then gradually turned it into the USA by displacing and/or killing many of those who didn't realize they needed to be discovered.

Other people, and other people currently running for president, support paying reparations to African-Americans as compensation for the fact that their ancestors were victims of the obscenity that was slavery.

While I can see their point I don't support their position.

Trying to determine a set of rules and procedures that would satisfy everyone while the purple press did what it does — choose sides and gin up outrage to capture clicks, eyeballs, and revenue — would create yet another hot mess that would never be resolved.

Compromise and solutions, for this and no shortage of other issues and problems, are likely to remain unresolved till those of you that are Millies and Zoomers take over and show the world how it's done.

Careful though, that's what we Boomers told our predecessors we were going to do and yet here we are. If I didn't know better — thanks to the wisdom of the woke — I would think this was the nature of the beast.

But of course, that sort of thing has been debunked. The beast has no nature, everything is a mere social construct and a return to the garden is just a matter of sufficient informed tweaking and experimentation.

There's no reason why we can't start tweaking and experimenting right now, which brings me to personal reparations. 


One of modern America's undeniable strengths, and preoccupations, is taking each other to court in the pursuit of justice.

Even those of us that live in Flyoverland, well, most of us, will talk to a lawyer or two before deciding which of our many, many guns will be needed to resolve a vexing problem.

What if the moron with the enormous, crazy-eyed, four-legged, bark, bark, barking manure spreader desperately in need of a dog whisperer next door won't listen to reason?

Just place a call to Dewey, Suem, and Howe (Free Consultations!). 

What if we could get some judge in one of the more lawsuit friendly states (not to mention any names...) to allow a lawsuit seeking personal reparations to go forward under tort law?

A jury of someone's peers, like the ones that keep finding that the weed killer Roundup causes cancer in spite of overwhelming scientific evidence to the contrary, could award punitive damages.

Voila! personal reparations are a thing.

According to the website of the law firm Allen, Allen, Allen & Allen (Protecting the injured since 1910), "Punitive damages are damages intended to punish the tortfeasor and also send a message to the community that the tortfeasor’s conduct will not be tolerated in the community."

Punish the tortfeasors and send a message to the community! Yeah, baby!

[Alle, Allen, Allen & Allen? Tortfeasor? You're just going for the cheap joke!]

What's your point, Dana?


Now, I realize that the more allegedly "rational" (yet another social construct created by the white, heterosexual, patriarchal suppressors (WHPS) among you will object on the grounds that tort law doesn't apply, or that at the very least new case law will need to be developed, legislation may be needed, and of course the Supremes will have, inevitably, to weigh in.

So what? Law schools, many of which are woke, keep churning out newly minted lawyers in debt up to the roots of their hair.

This would be a chance for them to go to work for nonprofit foundations set up to create a whole new branch of law and make a name for themselves while also making a living and working for a nonprofit employer, the dream of many an awakened Millie and Zoomer.

After all, even The Gummit can only absorb so many new lawyers.

One of the primary objections to reparations for oppressed groups is how do you determine who legitimately is a member of a given group? This idea solves that problem. An entire industry will evolve to aid individuals in proving that they're entitled to some dough. Yet more new jobs.

And as they used to say in commercials: put that checkbook away, there's more!

As Americans continue to come to their senses and reject the notion of rugged individualism and embrace victimhood (for everyone but the WHPS of course) personal reparations will make it possible for everyone to get even while simultaneously redistributing America's wealth.

For example, oppressed women of all genders and multiple intersectional victimizations could sue the men in their lives on an individual, case by case basis. Employees could go after employers. Fine arts and psychology majors could sue the schools that granted them their useless, wildly overpriced diplomas.

On and on it will go, a bloodless American version of the ever-expanding beheadings of the Frech Revolution. History will label this era the Great Levelling.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Please scroll down to react, comment, or share. If my work pleases you I wouldn't be offended if you offered to buy me a coffee.  

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Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post an announcement when I have a new column available as well as news articles/opinion pieces that reflect where I'm coming from or that I wish to call attention to. 

Cranky don't tweet.